


sincerely, you

by CalmSquidy



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Clara Oswald - Freeform, F/M, John Smith - Freeform, Love, Obsessive Behavior, Romance, Smut, Stalking, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:48:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22833535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CalmSquidy/pseuds/CalmSquidy
Summary: John Smith is a psychopath. Plain and simple… but a psychopath in love. He’s working at a record store when Clara Oswald, a twenty-four-year-old English teacher walks in searching for age appropriate records for her class. There’s a mutual attraction and John will stop at nothing to make sure Clara is his.Based around Caroline Kepnes Novel ‘You’Whouffaldi/AU/warnings of sex, stalking and violence.
Relationships: Amy Pond/Rory Williams, Clara Oswin Oswald/Danny Pink, Martha Jones/Mickey Smith, Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler, Twelfth Doctor/Clara Oswin Oswald
Comments: 9
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

1st January 2010 – Glasgow, Scotland

I hear the bell chime above the door.

First time in a few days that I’ve heard that sound.

It gets awfully lonely owning a record store, nobody seems to come in anymore. Maybe in London, but not here, never in Glasgow. It just isn’t that popular anymore.  
And there you are.

You’re short and your face is sort of… round?

You have incredibly small hands – and small feet, if I might add.

Your hair is a dull brown and all of a sudden, your hair is the most beautiful colour these old eyes have witnessed. Now, I can tell I’m certainly older than you, possibly by about twenty years. But there’s something about you that tells me my age isn’t going to bother you, not in the slightest. 

You’re wearing a pale shirt– buttoned all the way to the top of your throat – doesn’t that hurt a little, can you breathe properly? Look at me, I’m already worrying about your safety and you haven’t even told me your name yet. I spot that you’re wearing brown jeans far too tight for your legs and brown boots a little too big for your feet. 

I don’t notice your eyes until they settle on mine and all of sudden, I’m taking a deep breath in and forcing it all out all… over… again…

It’s your eyes that get my attention, and I’m sure they get the attention of a lot of other men too. I bet I’ll have more than men fighting for you, you know you’re beautiful and you take advantage of that. I drop my head down, I know I’ve definitely been staring for too long. My mother taught me well, have respect for women and they will have respect for you. I listen to your footsteps, those heavy boots scraping along the wooden floors of my record store – of all the shops in Glasgow and you come into this one. I can tell you aren’t from here, otherwise I would have seen you before and I wouldn’t miss a pretty face like yours.

You search the stacks for a while, flicking your way through heavy records. I don’t move a muscle, not wanting to frighten you. You’re in my shop, you should feel safe, right? I watch as you move from Led Zeppelin to the Beatles and I slowly start to gather information about you. So, you like Zeppelin and the Beatles? Nice choice, but definitely not your generation. I would say you’re around twenty-three years old, much younger than I am at thirty-nine, so I’m half expecting you to go for something early nineties or late nineties, none of this new stuff that’s been going around lately. 

Of course. 

Why would you be into new music? You are in a record store, after all.

You can tell a lot about a person from their music interests, you know? And I’m sure we’ll have no problem talking to each other when you pick out the record you want – and I have a feeling it will be something classic, something nobody will ever forget.

And, in one intense, very infuriating moment, you finally choose your poison – Queen. I take a gasp of relief and hope you didn’t hear that, because then you would know I’m watching your every move. I pretend like I haven’t been watching you walk around my store, scratching at my thick grey beard I’ve been working on for months – will you like my beard once you see me? Are beards your thing? Our eyes meet and I’m expecting the world to slow down, but it doesn’t. Everything plays out like an everyday transaction between store owner and customer.

You place the record down neatly, you’re careful with it and by that, I can tell you look after the things you buy, which suggests you don’t have a lot of money. I look for a ring first and thank God – there isn’t one, not even an engagement ring? I suppose you are too young to get married. Your nails are short, which is unusual for the type of woman you are, unafraid to show off your feminine side. I look down and notice which Queen record it is… A Night at the Opera, one of their best and I’m thankful you didn’t pick up Elvis.

I take out a bag, scan your record and make sure it’s delicately placed into the bag because I can just tell by the way you’re biting your bottom lip you’re anxious about this record – maybe it’s a gift for somebody? And then, you speak your first few words to me.

“Busy in here today?”

I knew it.

You aren’t from around here, you’re Northern. The accent sounds familiar but I can’t quite put my finger on it… I should get you to talk more, then maybe I’ll have a chance of figuring it out.

“No, no, not really,” I say, my Scottish accent is thick and it seems to take you by surprise and the way you’re looking at me I would say you like the look of me and the sound of my voice, most women do, “You’re my first customer in a few days, actually.”

You nod your head and take out your purse, deliberately flashing all your cards to me. I can tell that you’ve done it on purpose, you want me to know you. I smile, pressing my square, black rimmed glasses further into my face.

Clara.

Clara Oswald is your name and I already adore the way it rolls off of my tongue and how easy it is to say for the Scottish accent.

You were born on the twenty-seventh of April, in nineteen eighty-six, which makes you twenty-four this year. I wasn’t far off then, Clara. Once you’re finished digging through your purse, you finally pull out a ten-pound note and hand it to me. I make sure to move quickly, as I don’t want to scare you away with my staring but you’re just so – enticing.

“Very good choice,” I tell you, pointing at the record as I hand it over to you in its bag, “Thankful you didn’t choose Elvis,”

You laugh and take the bag, you should be scared of me, you should have a nervous laugh, nod your head and walk out of here as quick as you can.

But you like danger, I can tell.

“I’m not really an Elvis fan, I prefer bands to singers. I’m a sucker for Frank Sinatra though,”

I snort.

Great, you’re a Sinatra fan, well, not everybody can be perfect, “And why’s that?” I ask, not letting you know whether I like Sinatra or not.

You bite your lip and turn to walk away, “I like my men a little bit older,” you tell me and I feel my knees buckle.

This is what you do to me Clara, and I knew from that moment… I just had to have you.

A few hours have passed since our last meeting, Clara, and I can’t stop thinking about you. 

I know where your accent is from, I just can’t place it… Not yet anyway, but I have something that will help me out, social media. Now, I’m thirty-nine and nearing forty, I shouldn’t have a clue about social media, but I never seem to be off it. I’m an Artist, Clara, as you’ll find out soon and I’m determined to sketch every line I’ve memorised of you when I get back to my home, write every lyric I can think of so you know we’re meant to be together, that we’re… destined.

I don’t really believe in destiny, Clara, but there has to be some sort of reason as to why you walked into my shop and I felt the way I did when I took my first glance at you.

I know you felt it too, I could tell from the look you gave me. 

I don’t want to scare you away. I can’t write about you like they did in the 1500’s, it wasn’t acceptable now, these days it was seen as harassment. I would be arrested for just showing you how I feel. Weird, really. How could it be okay all those years ago and now if I even search you up on social media, it’s considered creepy? I don’t understand it Clara, but I know you will. I know you’ll understand why I need to know you. 

So, I push the key into the lock of my front door, pushing both doors open. I live in what you would call a Castle, Clara, but I don’t want to run around telling everybody I live in a Castle. That would just be gloating, and I’m not like that, you’ll see.

It’s cold in here and always damp, and I hate it. But I know someday you’ll live here with me, and we’ll sit in the living room by the fire, warming ourselves up with hot chocolate and a tub of marshmallows. People would say I’m moving too quickly, but why would they say that when half the population believe in love at first sight?

And that’s what I know this is, Clara.

It is love at first sight.

I roll my sleeves up, slicking my hair back just in case you just happen to show up at my door. Not that you would, as you have no idea where I live yet. But you will, I just need to know you first. I know other people will warn you away from me, I know they will see it as creepy that I’m even thinking about you hours after our meeting. But I can’t help it, I know you won’t mind, because I already know you.

I know what type of woman you are.

You’re kind and always thoughtful of others. You aren’t the type to buy a Starbucks at 7am, then drive off to work in a Ford Fiesta on time. I know you’re the type who is rushing around her flat at 8am, incredibly late for work, brushing her teeth whilst trying to force a shoe on and rushing out the door to get to your motorbike. I know you have a motorbike, because I noticed the grease on your hand when you paid for your record, when I was checking if you were married or not.

I don’t go near married women, Clara, so I had to check that first. I’m not a cheat, and I don’t cheat with women. I wouldn’t ever hurt you; I promise to protect you until I’m lying dead in a ditch, and this may sound like a lie, but I won’t let anything happen to you.

I have a duty of care now, Clara.

So, I sit at my desk, staring out of the window and into the back garden and suddenly I’m seeing you. I know you aren’t really there, but it’s a nice thought. You’re running around the garden, and then I see me. I’m chasing after you, laughing at your playful screams and we topple over into a pool. And I think it’s our future, Clara, the future I know we both deserve.

I open up my laptop, I don’t log in, just in case there’s any way you can see that I’m searching your name. There’s plenty of Clara Oswald’s in this world, so I have to be precise. I search for Scotland, and find a few profiles with the same name but they aren’t yours. I type in Glasgow, and a school comes up. I click on it, and there you are. Your profile open for the world to see, including your students, if I might add. The first thing I do is search through your friends; I don’t want anybody interfering with us.

Amelia Pond, she seems to work at this school too, as an Art teacher. Something I’ll have in common with one of your friends then, Clara.

The next person I find, is Donna Noble, she’s a redhead and she works as a receptionist at the school you teach at.

Then there’s Rose, the dinner lady, who is far too young to be a dinner lady. I scroll down further and find a ‘Ten’ who seems to be married to Rose and has taken her last name. Modern, I like your friends so far, Clara. 

But what’s with the name, why do they call him Ten?

Then there’s Martha, the school nurse who definitely looks as though she could break my leg if I ever hurt you. Protective friends, that’s always a good start. Then there’s Bill, who also works in the kitchen and she’s gay. That doesn’t bother me, it never has.

I’ll come back to your friends in a moment… I need to find out more about you, Clara. And Facebook is such an open book, any creep could be searching your name and taking your photos, you need to be more careful. But don’t worry, I’ll show you how to keep all your social media safe from creeps like that.

So, you’re from Blackpool, I thought it would be somewhere around there. Your father is alive and well, but your mother died five years ago in a gas explosion whilst she was shopping at a mall. I’m sorry, Clara. Truly, I am. You have no siblings, you work at Coal Hill in Glasgow, a school I haven’t heard of before so it must be newly built. You have over three hundred photos, mostly of other things, which tells me you don’t like the way you look and that irritates me Clara. 

You need to think more highly of yourself.

Your photos are of family and friends, and a few photos of yourself here and there. I don’t need to save any, because I’m not obsessed with you, I just want to know you.

You have a Twitter page, but you barely use it, so I won’t bother looking through that, just yet.

So, I click back onto your friends, scroll down to where I left off and right down the bottom of your list, I see someone you take a lot of pictures with and suddenly, I’m angry. He doesn’t see you the way I do, Clara, he doesn’t appreciate how different you are from all the other women he has slept with.

In the photo, you’re sat on his lap at some sort of party. You’re out of your face, and so is he, but both your relationship status’ say single, so he can’t be your boyfriend.

I really hope he isn’t your boyfriend.

His name is Danny.

Danny Pink, what a ridiculous name.

I’m distracted by the sudden noise my laptop makes, and it’s the sound of a Facebook notification. I scroll all the way to the top of your page and notice that you posted a status exactly a minute ago.

‘Why do older men have to be so… beautiful? No daddy issues, I swear. Just, #silverfox’

I smile.

I knew you felt it too Clara.

You’re using a hashtag for Facebook when it’s meant for Twitter, but I’ll forgive you, as you’re talking about me. Something tells me you’re lying when you say you have no daddy issues, but I guess I’ll find out.

The noise happens again, and I click the banner that reads ‘1 new post’ and I’ve never clicked something so fast, Clara.

It’s a picture of you, Amy, Donna and Rose sat round a table at a pub, you’ve captioned it with:

‘Drinks with a few colleagues and great friends. Discussing silver fox’s…’ with a winky face.

You’ve told your friends about me.

It’s sweet, really, I’m flattered. 

I click on the pub that you’ve tagged and see that it’s not too far from here, just a walk into town. I smile, I’ve got to know what your friends really think about me.  
I have to hear it for myself.

I grab my coat and a hat, covering my hair with it just in case you recognize me. I don’t want you to think I’m stalking you.

That would be creepy.


	2. Your Friends

I hear you laugh behind me.

I know it’s your laugh, because it suits you.

I look over my shoulder, pressing my glasses further into my face. I pull my cap harder down onto my head, it’s nearly covering my eyes but I can’t risk you spotting me, Clara.

I can’t risk your friends telling you I’m a creep and I’m stalking you because I’m not, I’m just trying to see you.

I order a cider and sit up at the bar, my shoulders slumped so I don’t make myself look obvious. 

If you – or your friends notice some old guy at the bar sitting up straight and making an effort to look over at you, you’ll move away and try and get away from me, but I just want to bump into you and know you. 

That doesn’t sound bad, does it, Clara? 

I just want to protect you from all the other creeps, like Danny Pink for example… What a waste of a man.

I sip from my glass and wipe the froth from my top lip, drinking cider isn’t exactly the most elegant drink. I should have ordered a Whiskey, your typical, ex-builder type of old man would only drink cider. Fuck, Clara, I didn’t think this through. I want you to think I’m different from other men, because I am. I’m different to Danny, who probably calls himself that because he hates how ‘grown up’ Rupert sounds. 

Anyway, enough about Danny. 

I can’t look over my shoulder too many times, because your ginger, Scottish friend keeps looking over at me. I’m not sure if she recognizes me because she grew up here, or she’s onto me.

My ears suddenly stand to attention, but I keep my shoulders slumped, the whole point of this is for you not to notice me.

I listen in, edging off of my seat as though if I move closer to you, I’ll be able to hear more clearly. I don’t know why I’m bothering, Clara, I can hear you and your friends just fine. I think it’s more of an excuse for me to bump into you. You’re talking about work mostly, talking ill of your students. Is that the type of woman you are Clara, or do you just do that to make your friends feel better about their crappy opinions towards other people? Do you do it so your friends feel normal?

The conversation seems like it’s going on for ages, you’re all interrupting each other, a mix of different accents which is quite honestly, getting on my last nerve.

You’re all laughing and seem to be knocking back enough drinks to kill an elephant. It goes silent, and then the tone of the conversation drops. Amy, the ginger one who is the Art teacher, starts to talk about her husband, Rory. They can’t have a baby, which is awful, I know how that feels. I’m nearly forty and I don’t have any children. I wonder how you feel about children, Clara?

Donna and her husband are trying for a baby, and they all seem to want to have children. Rose, on the other hand, tells everybody she’s too young and makes some naïve comment that her much older husband doesn’t want any children and he’s quite happy with just her, as they are now. We all know that’s not true and I can tell from the sigh you let out before you take another shot, that what Rose is saying isn’t true.

What’s the secret there, Clara?

The conversation dies down and you all seem to be quite drunk on how ever many shots you’ve all taken.

Then, all of a sudden, to my absolute delight, you mention my record store in the middle of this tiny town, where nobody really goes and your friends are listening and I’m nearly off of my chair with excitement. You tell them how we met, you were buying a record to show your students in class, as one of them didn’t know what a vinyl player was. Anyway, I listen harder and I can tell from the tone of your voice meeting me did something to you, like it did something to me. You explain what I look like, handsome and a silver fox. I have a sharp jaw, at least in my late thirties. A compliment, when you’re hitting forty. I have curly, thick hair and you explain just how badly you want to run your fingers through it, I have no problem with that, Clara.

You tell them about my glasses and call me modern, my accent sends shivers down your whole body and my personality tops it all off, in your opinion. I’m sweet, and not like other men and this is exactly how I wanted you to see me, Clara. You pause as if you’re thinking of anything else to say, but instead you hold back and throw your neck backwards, drinking yet another shot. 

Careful Clara, any creep could be watching you and take advantage of you with how heavily intoxicated you are. Your friends encourage you, but you shut them down, telling them it wouldn’t work, your father wouldn’t agree. Screw your father, you’re a grown woman.

The conversation dies down again, and Amy announces that she’s calling a Taxi because it’s late and she wants to get back to Rory. Donna does the same and they both get up to leave, thanking their friends for a wonderful night. Our meeting meant something to you, otherwise you wouldn’t have brought me up to your friends. If you’re close to your friends, which I can tell you are, you would tell them nearly everything about your life, every aspect. Maybe I need to befriend one of your friends and that’s how we’ll bump into each other?

The next to leave is Rose, apparently her dedicated, over protective husband is waiting outside. If he has to pick you up, Rose, he doesn’t trust you. That’s the first thing I’m going to build with you, Clara, trust. I can already tell you don’t trust your friends, so you’re going to trust me, I’ll make sure of that. I know you don’t trust Rose, because after she leaves and she’s out of sight, you grab your bag and stumble to the door. I want to help you, I want to stand and make sure you don’t trip in those ridiculous heels and hurt yourself. But I don’t, because I’m a coward and it isn’t the right time yet. 

I do have a duty of care now.

So, I finish my drink and stand up, following close enough to see where you’re going but not close enough for you to hear or notice me. You stop at the edge of the path and wave at Rose, now you know she isn’t lying and she was picked up by her husband after all. You look around and attempt to call a Taxi, you’re starting to walk off down the road and I immediately panic, what if you fall? What if you walk out into a busy road and get hit by a car? I can’t have that happen Clara, I care about you.

I care about you.

I’m not following you, I’m making sure you’re okay, like any gentlemen would.

I follow close behind you and it’s worrying how you can’t hear my footsteps Clara as we’ve walked all the way back to the block of flats you live in. I was right, you don’t have a lot of money. Surely by now you’ve noticed me? Maybe you’re trying not to panic.

You should panic, you should run and get back to your flat as quickly as you can. I make note of your address mentally and drop behind a bush when you turn around. 

Right, you haven’t noticed, but you’re paranoid. If you had noticed, you’re the type of woman to walk back on yourself and check nobody is following you. I know you can defend yourself, so I should have trusted you enough to walk back by yourself, unharmed.

You turn back around and attempt to buzz the door open. I don’t want you to know I followed you for fear of scaring you, so I’ve got to act like I live here too. I walk around the corner, singing to myself to make myself seem like a happy, slightly drunk guy on his way back from the pub. I know we've met already and you'll remember me from the my store earlier.

So, I walk towards you, not stumble, because I don’t want you to think I’m going to hurt you.

I pause for a minute and lean over to buzz the door open, you’re all but leaning on me and it really isn’t safe for you to be out here, Clara.

“Do you need some help, lass?” I ask, my hands on your shoulders, not wanting to touch any lower in case you bat me away and scream that I’m attempting to rape you.

You stare up at me and god, you’ve never looked so beautiful. All I want to do is take you inside and fuck you up against a wall. But I’m the nice guy, I’m the nice guy with the accent and the cute, curly (slightly grey) hair.

“Hey, I know you,” you grin, poking my chest but nearly missing because of the sway you dramatically display, “You own that record store! Mr Silver Fox… Did I mention that you’re hot? Because you are.”

I smile.

It’s flattering, to be seen as attractive by a much younger woman.

I laugh, and you instinctively lean closer to me because you know who I am now, “Thank you, I appreciate that. I’m not often told that,” I laugh it off because you’re drunk and would probably be embarrassed if you had said that to me sober.

I buzz us both in and make sure we take the lift, because I don’t think you can manage the stairs.

“Which flat are you?”

“I’m – I’m flat 123!” You exclaim all of a sudden, throwing your hands in the air. I laugh, because you’re a loud drunk, but you’re not aggressive or whiny.

You’re the good kind of drunk.

“Okay, do you mind if I help you to your flat?” I ask and I can tell you appreciate the gesture; most men probably wouldn’t offer to help you. Or women.

You nod and you really need to be more careful, I could be anybody.

The lift alerts us that we’ve reached your floor and I help you out, letting you walk ahead of me. I don’t want to touch you, you might think I’m coming onto you and that’s not what I want, I want you to know me first.

We reach your door and I help you inside because you're struggling with your keys. I keep the door open and you notice, it makes it look as if I’m not intending to stay and I have respect for you. It’s a subtle way to tell you I have respect for you and I’m just here to help you home. All of a sudden, you swing your arms around me and you really shouldn’t be hugging a stranger.

“Thank you for helping me into my flat, mystery silver fox!” you shout, your arms leaving my neck.

I smile and shrug my shoulders, “It’s what any gentlemen would do.” I nearly let your name slip but then I remember, you haven’t told me your name yet and I’m about to ask you but before I can you’ve slipped off your heels and all but collapsed onto your sofa.

You’ve fallen asleep and it would be adorable if I was your boyfriend and you knew me, but you don’t know me and I could be anybody, you really need to be more careful. But don’t worry Clara, I’ll be taking care of you soon. I smile and bend over, grabbing a red blanket from one end of your sofa and I place it over the top of you. I take off your shoes and place them neatly by the door, I want you to be comfortable. 

I stand for a while, watching you, until it becomes creepy and I snap out of it. I turn to see your phone on the coffee table…

Would you notice if it went missing? It’s an IPhone, even if you got a new one, it would still work with a Sim card in and an ICloud back up. I don’t want to steal from you Clara, I don’t. But you’ve left me no choice, I have to know you and I have to make sure men like Danny aren’t harassing you all of the time.

I pick up your phone, back up your ICloud so I can stay logged in when you eventually get a new phone and I close your front door, making sure it’s jammed shut so nobody can follow you up here. As I’m walking down the steps of your block of flats, I take your phone out of my pocket and there’s a photo of you and your work colleagues. 

Fuck, Clara.

Not even a passcode?

We really need to talk about your internet safety.


	3. Lost Phone

The next time I see you, you’re in a desperate panic.

This isn’t about your phone, is it? You shouldn’t be so attached to something so… useless. 

Your whole life doesn’t need to revolve around your phone, Clara. I could be the type of man to make you forget to even look at your phone when you’re around me, that’s the type of love you need. 

I know what you need, you need me and my time and patience, not Danny Pink who is more concerned about the way he looks than making sure you’re safe and well.

I remember that your phone is sitting in my desk, tucked away safely from Danny and his immaturity. I’m worried about you, Clara and I watch as you run straight for my front desk, heavy breathing and a very hungover look about you.

“Have you seen my phone at all? It’s an IPhone, I can’t find it anywhere. I’ve retraced my steps from last night when I went out and I remember seeing you when you dropped me off at my flat, did you see it anywhere? Did I drop it?”

Why are you like this over a phone, is this what people are like these days, too attached to their phones to realise what was standing right in front of them?

I suppose this was my chance, my chance to offer you my help and assist you in locating your phone. Of course, I know exactly where it is, but it’s for your own safety, this way I know Danny will stay out of our way. 

“Hm,” I mumble to myself, tapping my rough hands against my desk, looking as though I’m lost in my thoughts, “No, I can’t say I did see it. As soon as you fell asleep, I put that blanket over you and put your shoes away and left,’ I smile at you and I’m lucky I have a kind face. 

If I was any other man, I’d look like a predator. 

Your very small hands are searching through your pockets for the fifth time since you’ve entered my shop, your brows knitting into a more intense frown with each passing second. You take a moment to calm down, closing your eyes and taking a breather. I don’t want to interrupt, this is causing you intense stress and I hate to see you like this but like I said, it’s for your own good and I only want to protect you.

Those eyes open once more and your eyes meet mine and it’s as if you already know me, already know every fibre of my being. You smile in a way that I know is the type of smile that’s reserved just for me. 

“I just realised,” you sigh, your gaze tearing from mine, “I’ve come in here all guns blazing and haven’t actually asked you what your name is, Silver Fox,”

Now’s my chance to flirt, but I’m not too great at flirting. I take a deep breath, relaxing my shoulders. A small smile on my face that I’m sure reaches my eyes, I extend my hand out to you, trying to ignore the fire your touch ignites in me and I’m sure that you feel it too.

“John Smith, I promise it’s my real name,” I laugh and that seems to make you smile more, I think you’ve even forgotten about your phone for a few seconds.

I told you, Clara, I’m the type of man that will make you forget to even look at your phone. 

You smile and a whole minute seems to pass of you shaking my hand continually before you drop it, “Clara Oswald… I’m sorry I barged in like that, I’m an English teacher at Coal Hill down the road from here. I’ve only been working there a year and all of my students work is backed up on my IPhone,”

You really need to be more careful who you tell this type of information to. What if I followed you to your school, what if I harmed your students to get to you? I’d never do that though, Clara… 

I’d never risk hurting you through something you clearly love and have devoted your life too.

I nod my head, “Ah, I see. You should invest in a laptop,” I tell you slyly, moving from my desk and round to where all of my Queen records are kept.

I remember that small detail about you from our meeting yesterday, you love Queen.

You laugh and fold your arms over your chest, rocking back and forth on your heels, “I like an older man that’s a little bit too cheeky,”

I raise an eyebrow at that, “Well, I’m your man,” I tell you, deliberately running my fingers through my grey curls.

I remember that you told your friends how badly you want to run your fingers through my hair and I smile when I notice you staring. 

I flick through the Queen records and you join me, the rough leather of your jacket rubbing against my bare arm, neither of us can ignore the pressure between us, the undeniable chemistry that’s making me feel like I can no longer breathe without you near me. Your head tilts back and you stare up at me, I would say you’re exactly a foot shorter than me. 

“So, John Smith, I need another record to show my class on Monday. What would you recommend?” you ask me and you’re flicking through each record, our fingers inches from each other’s.

I wait a few seconds, I don’t want to be too eager to answer and seem desperate to talk to you, “Well, Miss Oswald… I would recommend possibly some Led Zeppelin if you want to show them something heavier than Queen? Or maybe something from this generation?”

Your adorable brows knit into yet another frown, you do a lot of that, “God, no. Absolutely not. Music from this generation is shocking, it’s all too auto tuned and over processed. I need to show them something raw and real, something you can really hear through a vinyl player,”

I know you’re not a Music teacher, but you talk like one. I wonder if your other passion is music as well as English, do you have multiple passions or is it just the English language?

What is it about English that you love to teach? Is it the poetry, the story telling or the over analysing?

I wait until your eyes fall on all the other records in the store, watching as you glide around the room and move away from me and I can’t help but miss your presence.   
“I need something that’s poetic as I’m currently analysing poems in my Year Eleven classes, but they’ve told me they have no idea what a vinyl player is,” you roll your eyes and pick up a Beatles record, scanning the back of it.

The Beatles aren’t what you’re looking for if you want poetry. 

You turn to look at me, dragging out your words as you skip around the room, “So, I was thinking why not put two together? You know, hit two birds with one stone or whatever the saying is. I want my students to enjoy learning,” 

I can already see how passionate you are.

You’re already a joy to be around. Your joy and your laughter is infectious, you wouldn’t be able to tell you were struggling with money, or you lost your mother when you were younger or that you hate your Step mother, all these things that I had found out by your cryptic social media posts. 

I don’t move from my spot over by the Queen records, I don’t want to overcrowd you or look like I’m too desperate to leave you alone for five minutes, “You have the right idea in Queen, they’re very poetic if you look into it. But maybe try something modern if you really want to get their attention. Possibly Artic Monkeys, not much of their music makes sense,”

You look surprised at this, but I carry on, “It really doesn’t. I’ll be your vacuum cleaner? What is that about, I mean, come on!” I shout, my hands in the air just to emphasise to you how ridiculous those lyrics are. 

You’re laughing and it is music to my ears, “I suppose you are right; we could analyse an Artic Monkeys album and the kids would enjoy listening to it, I suppose,”

I nod in conformation and search through a few of my Artic Monkeys albums, picking out their most recent one, “Now, it’s not as good as their older albums but it’s something your students will enjoy,” I tell you and you’re staring at me, intently listening and I can’t help but want to push that stray strand of hair behind your ear.  
But, I don’t. I can’t just put my hands on you without your permission, I need to respect your personal space, first rule of getting to know somebody.

You take the record from me and stay silent for a few moments, only looking up at me when you’ve clearly thought about what you want to say, “You seem to know a lot about music and vinyl’s, would it be weird if I asked you to come and show my students your collection? But strictly music you think is poetic,”

I wait for a moment or two, then shake my head, “No, of course it’s not weird, I’ll be happy to help,” 

I need to sound like your typical ‘older man’ wanting to just help out with no ill intentions. I don’t want you to think I’m creepy or I just want to help you to get closer to you, because that’s not it, Clara. I want to help because I need to know you, I know you can feel the pull between us, we owe it to the universe to know each other. 

You reach for a piece of paper and scribble down the address of the school, the date and the time to meet you there and without another word and an effortless smile, you leave my store and leave me having to drag my jaw off of the ground. Is this really happening? A woman twenty years younger than me, a beautiful and intelligent one, letting me into her life? 

Oh Clara, my Clara…

You won’t regret this decision, I’ll make sure you’re treated right.

As soon as you leave, I get to work. I need to pick out the most age appropriate records and ones that I know you will like, I’m not interested in the music taste of your students, I want you to be impressed that I’ve listened to every single word. But, I am going to need a little bit of help. So, after I’ve packed most of the records into boxes that I think you’ll like, I pull your phone from my desk draw and search through Facebook. I look through your posts, friends posts until finally I find your likes and dislikes all over your page. I scroll down and figure out which music you like and get to work packing all the other records into cardboard boxes.

I have a feeling this will only make you fall harder for me, Clara.


	4. The Students

The next time we see each other, I’m outside the school you work at.

No, I haven’t followed you here… Today’s the day I come and show your students real music.

I haven’t thought about Danny since the last time you were in my store, there’s no need to think about him when all you’re interested in is me.

I can tell, Clara.

I can tell from the way you look at me, it’s those eyes, it’s like they inflate.

How do you do that with the eyes?

You almost look like you’re in love, Clara.

It hasn’t been long at all, but I know you feel this connection as deeply as I do. It’s more than a lust for each other, it’s as if there’s some sort of gravitational pull dragging you towards me. I want you to be happy Clara, I want you to be happy with me.

I want you to achieve all your goals, I want you to be the best teacher you can be and I want to know you, to really know you and all your imperfections, if you have any. I want to be confident that I’m the only man you’d never lie to, the only man you can trust.

Lost in my thoughts, I hadn’t notice you walk right up to me, your motorcycle helmet tucked under your arm.

“Good morning, John,” you say, your eyebrow arched as if to say I’ve been stood there staring for a while and you’ve most definitely noticed. 

I jump out of my trance and stare at you instead, you’ve cut your hair, that’s the first thing I notice. I’m not great with change, but I think it suits you. Do you want me to notice? Did you cut it for me?

“Clara,” I say your name as if it’s the last time I’m going to be saying it, clutching onto my cardboard box full of your favourite music.

And of course, the record of Artic Monkey’s latest album for your students.

You smile and I swear, I would suffer billions upon billions of years of torture just to see you smile again. It reaches your eyes, so I know it’s real. I know you feel the same. 

“Fancy coming in for a cuppa before we show the students all the records you’ve got?”

There it is, the Northern in you. I think it’s the most attractive thing about you, it separates you from every other woman in Scotland, obviously. 

I follow you in, the palms of my hands beginning to sweat from the stares I receive from the students at this school. They’re a flourish of Scottish and Northern students and I’m starting to think you dragged half of your old students from the North right up to Scotland. That wouldn’t make sense, but every student in this school seems to know who you are and they seem to love you. I can understand why.

You’re sweet, but you have a mean streak and all these students seem to know it. They smile at you and say hello, but that’s as far as it goes, they seem to respect you and that’s what you deserve Clara, respect. You demand it as soon as you walk into any room, everybody needs to be looking at you and you don’t mind the attention at all. And, if I was your husband, I’d be proud to have you on my arm and have everybody stare at you as then I’d know, you could have anybody you wanted, but you chose me. 

Before we can reach the staff room, a young girl jumps out in front of me and I nearly drop the box, trying not to lash out because of the very expensive records inside. I scowl and gather myself together, forcing a smile at the girl I assume is called Courtney by the way you scream at her. The girl immediately straightens as if she’s been called to attention by an armed officer, her gaze locked onto yours. How did you get a bunch of teenagers to respect and listen to you all at the same time, Clara? It’s unheard of. 

“Now, apologise to Mr Smith for bumping into him. He’s going to be showing you your next assignment in class and has given up his very valuable time to help us,” you tell her and she seems to be listening, but I know better.

Courtney looks like a trouble maker. 

The young girl holds her hands behind her back, her soulful eyes on mine, “I’m sorry, Mr Smith,” you can’t see it, but she’s smirking right at me as if she can read my mind.

I don’t mind kids or teenagers Clara, but they always look as if they know more than you but will only tell you what their secrets are in riddles.

After she’s given her fake apology, she sends you a big, winning smile and rushes off with her friends, all of them are pointing and giggling but you don’t seem to take much notice. 

It’s silent for a few moments, but it’s a silence we’re both comfortable with. That’s the number one rule, always find somebody you can fit into a silence with.   
You turn around and I watch, because I know you want me to. You take one look over your shoulder and you push down on the door handle, not once breaking eye contact with me. I smile and follow you in, a sweet and innocent look about me that I know will convince you that you’ll be able to walk all over me. Because I already know you’re a control freak Clara, you only let people know what you want them to know about you. I finally place the box down and you immediately search through them, you’re like an over excited child on Christmas Day ripping open their favourite present they know they’re about to open. Is that what this is to you, Clara? Is it this exciting to receive something from me? Are you the type to want to be brought flowers randomly so you can shove them in a vase and have them on your desk at work, but you won’t ever tell who left them? 

Do you like your relationships to be a mystery between you and the person you’re dating?

I take a mental note of all these questions I have, because your actions have already answered them.

“Did I get it right?” I ask, pushing my glasses further up my nose and rolling up my sleeves, nervously awaiting your verdict. I’ve noticed that you pick up on a lot of body language. 

You would, being an English teacher, it’s in your job description to pull apart body language and language itself to find all of their hidden meanings. 

You take a moment, your hand glides over a particular Led Zeppelin vinyl, “They’re beautiful, really, they are…” you tell me and place it back into the box.

You don’t give much away, do you, Clara?

I watch as you seem to be gathering your thoughts with your back turned to me, busying yourself with making us cups of tea. Did I hit a nerve? 

I ignore it, if you want to tell me, you will.

After you’ve made our tea, you take your seat opposite me, curling your feet up on the chair. You’re small enough to fit inside it and I think it’s just about the most adorable thing I have ever seen. 

You’re staring at me over the bridge of your mug, your eyes don’t seem to leave mine and I know now Clara, that you’ll never leave my mind no matter what I do.

“What brings you to Scotland?” I ask, wanting to know more about you. This seems to break our eye contact and I’m almost disappointed, until you place down your cup and your dark eyes are back on mine.

It’s as if you’re searching for something in mine.

You wait for a few moments, but it’s not hesitation, it’s like you want to leave me on the edge of my seat to keep me engaged in the conversation. You must do this with your students to keep their attention and their respect.

“My mother died when I was a teenager in an explosion in 2005 and I never really got over it,” you tell me and I can tell that half the staff already know about because you say it loud enough for them all to hear but nobody bats an eyelid.

“But, my dad did and I couldn’t stand my step mother so I moved up here to get away from her. Well, to get away from them both, I couldn’t stand how quickly he moved on from mum,” a hint of vulnerability passes in both your eyes and voice but it fades as quickly as it was there.

You’re talking to me as if we’ve been friends for years, you seem to trust me and you really shouldn’t, I could be anyone. Luckily, I’m here to save you from the creeps of the world. Hence why I still have your phone and I’m hoping you replace it soon so I can get an update on your messages, I still have to protect you from Danny and I really hope you’re not the type to get your friends involved with your relationships because I really don’t need them interfering with us. 

I wouldn’t want to have to get rid of them too, Clara.

“Shall we go and show my students these vinyl’s then?” you grab my attention and within minutes, you’re out the door with my box in your arms, leading the way to your classroom. 

Clara, I can’t wait.


End file.
